


Barefoot Dancing

by missunderstood88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, SO FLUFFY, but it was fun, but its cute, gabrielle is a bit of a fangirl, have i mentioned the fluff?, make sure you have some insulin near by, no, obviously, ok, seamus is her prince charming, seriously, shes a lot of a fangirl, there is barefoot dancing, there should be a limit to tags, this is legit the weirdest ship ive ever written, this was a promt, with handsome dance partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missunderstood88/pseuds/missunderstood88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'll dance with me later, won't you?" he entreats. "It is tradition, after all." Gabrielle grins.</p><p>Is it tradition if it has only happened once?"</p><p>The smile that lights up his face this time destroys her. "They have to start somewhere."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barefoot Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a challenge over at the HPFF forums. I've never really strayed out of Hermione-centric ships before. Or wolfstar. So this was a nice little change of scenery for me. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I have you have fun reading it.

** Dancing Barefoot. **

****

**_i. connection_ **

Gabrielle wants to go home before she even sets foot inside the ballroom.

The feeling intensifies when she catches sight of what is supposed to be the evening’s decorations and she can’t help the sneer of distaste that twists her face. It’s a nauseating sea of emerald green broken by flashes of gaudy orange and too-bright white. Shamrocks have been crammed onto nearly every surface and several even bob dejectedly in the drink that is being shoved into her hand by a surly looking waiter who has been dressed up like a leprechaun. The glare he gives her is challenging - daring her to laugh.

To her right is a group of actual leprechauns who snicker mean-spiritedly at the waiter as he trudges past them, pulling aggravatedly at a striped stocking which has begun to sag. There’s a moment when he nearly collides with a waitress who is struggling to walk in her fishtail skirt that causes the leprechauns to laugh uproariously before he storms away and the _click_ and _snap_ of his hard heeled brogues on the floor is surprisingly loud in spite of the din caused by voices and fiddles and mersong.

Gabrielle frowns down at the goblet in her hand. The wine is a pale, mint green colour and she’s not quite sure if she’s brave enough to try it. She remembers stealing a bottle of unattended green wine from her _maman’s_ kitchen when she was thirteen and drinking the whole thing with her cousin. They were ill for days afterwards because the wine had been over-oxidised.  Her _maman_ had said it served them right. Gabrielle purses her lips, considers and then places it back onto the tray of a passing waiter.

She’d rather have a whiskey.

She sighs deeply, bracingly, and smoothes out the skirt of her gold silk dress. She detects the unfriendly gaze of a nearby group of girls and her hand goes self-consciously to her bare shoulder before she catches herself. She feels her face tighten in a ghost of a scowl before she returns her hand to her side and curls it into a fist. She straightens her spine, lifts her chin and sweeps away into the crowd.

She cannot help the way that she looks any more than those girls can, but she is twenty-two now and she is used to the looks that other women give her. She refuses to feel guilty that other women use her appearance to fuel their own insecurities rather than use that energy to turn inwards and see their own beauty. She will not force herself to be something she is not in order to make other people feel better about themselves.  

A smirk curls her lips; if they insist on staring, she will give them something to stare at.

She lengthens her strides, squares her shoulders, swings her hips a bit more and in her periphery she can see more heads turning to watch her pass.

Even so, she is uncomfortable. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She is here alone.

She weaves aimlessly between the neatly set, round tables and watches the people around her. Every so often she stops to make small talk with someone she knows; a work colleague, an old school friend, her ex-boyfriend and his new fiancé. But she never stops for more than a few minutes and her conversation is half-hearted; strained. She knows this is where she gets her reputation as a snob from, but right now she can’t bring herself to care and she desperately wants to go home to her Dublin flat overlooking the harbour with its warmth and complete lack of other people.

She waits until she can politely stop mingling to find her seat – her feet are starting to hurt in her stilettos and she wants to see if she can order a real drink. When she gets there she’s glad to see she’s not the first to arrive – not even the second. Her table is already occupied by a drunken couple who appear quite unashamed about the enthusiasm with which they are kissing and a solitary man with sandy coloured hair.

Familiar sandy coloured hair.

Gabrielle _knows_ that hair.

She watches as the man reaches out and pours himself a glass of water. His every movement is gruff as he reaches into his tuxedo jacket, pulls out his wand and jabs it aggressively at the glass he has just poured. Instantly, the liquid inside turns a deep, warm amber. The man returns his wand to his jacket, picks up his glass and sips contentedly at his newly transfigured whiskey.

For the first time that night, Gabrielle feels a genuine smile shape her lips.

“So you finally mastered the spell, then?”

Seamus’ head snaps up and Gabrielle feels a moment’s panic as he seems to gape at her – _merde, he doesn’t remember her_ \- before a slow grin spreads across his face. Gabrielle’s stomach swoops.

“Gabrielle Delacour,” he says, and he actually sounds pleased to see her. His voice is deeper than she remembers. Older sounding. Then again, everything about him is older now. His sandy hair has been cut short and he wears it stylishly swept back from his face. His face is harder in that way that men’s faces are; his nose is straight, his eyes blue and bright and his jaw is wide and strong. His shoulders, too, look harder; strong and wide beneath the blue material of his tuxedo.

They appear to be the only two people who have forgone the Irish-themed dress code.

They stare at each other, grinning foolishly until the amorous couple at their table separate and turn to give them strange looks. He pats the seat beside him and Gabrielle hurries forward and drops into the seat. She doesn’t stop to look at the name card until she’s set her clutch bag on the table, but before she can properly read the name Seamus is already scooping it up and replacing it with her own. She turns to smile gratefully at him and is suddenly struck with the realisation that she is sat next to _Seamus Finnigan_. The boy – _man_ – she has been in love with since she was eight years old.

“It’s so good to see you,” she blurts and has to stop herself from physically cringing because she sounds like a little girl gushing at her crush. But Seamus just smiles widely back and nods his head.

“You too. It’s been how long?” he asks and he lifts his eyes to the heavens as if they could offer him the answer.

“Three years,” supplies Gabrielle. Maybe a bit too quickly to be casual. “Victoire’s fifth birthday party.” Seamus’ eyes widen.

“Has it really been that long?” He sounds almost sad, but Gabrielle immediately clamps down on the spark of hope that his tone inspires. He’s just being nice. Gabrielle smiles tightly and Seamus’ own grin seems to falter for a moment. “You’re working at the Irish ministry now, aren’t you? Department for the Conservation and Protection of Magical Creatures?”

“ _Oui_ , Veela liaison,” she says, pleased that he knows this about her. “How did you know?” Seamus gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Harry told me just after you started.” His smile is lopsided, she notices, his lips lifting higher on one side than the other and Gabrielle thrills at just how attractive this man is. Her Knight in shining armour is a genuine Prince Charming. “I think it was at Ron’s stag-party.”

“That would be around the time I moved over,” confirms Gabrielle. Seamus has shifted in his seat and is now facing her more than the table. He was always one of those people who use their entire body to communicate when they talk and Gabrielle can’t help but find it charming.

“And you’re enjoying it?” He seems genuinely interested in what she has to say, leaning towards her as he speaks and the spicy smell of his aftershave makes her skin warm. She nods.

“Oh yes, _c’est magnifique_!” she says. “I’ve always been more involved in my Veela heritage than Fleur and after the coalition for Creature conservation between France and Ireland – it was a dream come true to get a job like this.” She knows she probably sounds a bit too enthusiastic about her job, but she can’t help it; she loves what she does. But Seamus is smiling at her like he’s happy for her, like he understands what she’s feeling. Gabrielle hopes he does; she really likes the idea of Seamus Finnigan being happy, because he is one of those genuinely good people who deserve it.

She would like it even more if she could be a part of his happiness in the way that he has been a part of hers.

“Drink, madam?” Gabrielle jumps and turns towards the person who has just spoken. Beside them is the surly waiter who gave her a drink earlier. His ginger wig is skewed on his head - his hat is missing completely - and he looks like he’d very much like to throw the tray at her rather than serve her a drink from it. Gabrielle eyes the goblets of green wine and grimaces.

“Is there anything else to drink?” she asks as politely as possible, trying to keep her voice mild. She hates confrontation, hates aggressiveness, and if the way the waiter is glaring at her is any indication, she’ll be lucky to avoid either. The irritated waiter merely points impudently at a waitress – her entire body wrapped in bandages - two tables away and carrying a tray of alarmingly orange champagne.

“She’s fine,” says Seamus over the top of her head and she feels as his arm drops onto the back of her chair, whilst he presses something into her hands. She looks down to find herself cradling a tumbler of whiskey. She shivers. They might not be touching but she can still feel the heat from his hand where it rests on her seatback by her bare shoulder. She’s sure her skin is covered in goose bumps.

She looks up into Seamus’ face and watches him frown after the retreating, recalcitrant waiter before turning to smile down at her. “Better?” he asks nodding to the glass in her hands. Gabrielle feels herself flush. Oh, he must think she’s such a snob.

“Better,” she smiles weakly. Again, Seamus’ grin seems to falter but he doesn’t remove his arm.

“You’re living in Dublin, aren’t you?” he asks and Gabrielle has a hard time focusing because he’s drumming his fingers on the back of her seat and he’s close enough that he’s just – _just_ – grazing the skin of her shoulder and the feeling is completely distracting.

“Yes, by the harbour,” she says, and she knows her voice is lower, breathier. Oh, but she does like to make a fool of herself in front of him. Seamus grins at her, as though he knows exactly what is going through her head, which makes her flush in embarrassment and he hums thoughtfully.

“I’m moving to Dublin next month.” This wakes her up.

“You are?” she asks, perhaps a touch too excitedly and Seamus nods.

“I am, so you’ll have to be my welcoming party – you know, show me around the city and stuff?”  He sounds confident, almost joking but it’s still posed as a question.

“ _Mais oui_ ,” she tells him and her stomach does this _thing_ that makes her feel like she’s about to shoot off her chair. _Seamus is moving to Dublin_ she thinks to herself but doesn’t really have time to process it.

There’s a commotion a few tables away as a group of people who have already over indulged knock into several others in their attempts to start a dance reel. They’re all red in the face and laughing raucously, but that’s not what has her attention. Several feet away is a couple, two men approximately her own age, who are wrapped around each other, dancing slowly, shifting from foot to foot in time to music only they can hear. Something deep inside her throbs and her lips twitch downwards in a miniscule frown. She’s smart enough to know that she’s jealous.

Then a hand is lifting her own from the table. She turns to look at her tanned fingers gripped gently by Seamus’ pale ones. His hands are large – _so big_ – masculine and warm and a shiver starts in her arm and works its way down her body. He pulls it against his chest and holds it there dipping his head and forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You’ll dance with me later, won’t you?” he entreats. “It is tradition, after all.” Gabrielle grins.

“Is it a tradition if it has only happened once?”

The smile that lights up his face this time destroys her. “They have to start somewhere.”

 

 

 

 

**_ii. benediction._ **

_She is hiding behind the rosebushes when he finds her. She has stolen one of her sister’s dresses; it is a pale, buttery yellow with a beautiful lace collar and float-y skirt. Or well, it_ was _a pale, buttery yellow. Now it is streaked with mud and dirt and is ripped from where she’s crawled through the bushes. Her arms and face are covered in scratches from the thorns and the blood on her face has mingled with the dirt and her tears._

_All she had wanted was to go to the ball with her sister._

_She had watched miserably as her sister and her friends had paraded around in their glittering dress robes, cooing over each other’s hair and make-up; talking excitedly about the boys they were going to be meeting later. About who they wanted to dance with at the ball. Gabrielle had sat in the corner; too young to join in and old enough to feel left out._

_She had glared resentfully when Fleur kindly offered to bring her back dessert. But what was dessert to her when they would all enjoy it at the Ball?_

_So she had waited until they had all left, stolen into her sister’s room and taken the prettiest dress she could find. It was too big for her of course, but she didn’t care. She had contemplated putting on some of her sister’s make-up before realising that she had no idea what to do with any of it, then she brushed her hair and rushed out of their carriage-home, barefoot._

_The ball had already been in full swing by the time she arrived, but she never made it inside. Madame Maxime was waiting by the entry to the great hall; almost as if she were waiting for her._

_“Non, ma Cherie,” her teacher had said gently when she had reached the towering woman. “You cannot come tonight. We have already told you – you are too young.” With a gentle hand on Gabrielle’s back, she had turned her away towards the grounds. “You must go and put your sister’s dress back. We will have our own party soon, I promise.”_

_But promises of parties were not enough for Gabrielle and she had torn herself away from the older woman. “I don’t want your parties, I want this one,” She had cried, tears of frustration and betrayal starting to gather in her eyes._

_“Mon chou, do not do this,” soothed Madam Maxime. “There will be other parties. You_ must _go back to the carriage now. If you do not then I will be forced to punish you.”_

_And that had been all that Gabrielle’s eight year old feelings could take. With a heart-wrenching sob she had torn herself away from her teacher and half-ran half-stumbled into the gardens. But the curious looks of the occupants made her feel small and silly and so she found the biggest bush she could, dropped to her knees and crawled to the back._

_And that is where he finds her; sat in the dirt, her arms around her legs and sobbing into her knees._

_“Are you all right?” His voice sounds strange. She has never heard anyone talk like him before; it is musical and cheerful. “Hello?”_

_Gabrielle buries her head deeper into her knees, prays he will go away and continues to cry. She hears the rustle of the bush around her and is startled into raising her head when she finds herself doused in light._

_Where she was clawed at by the thorns of the crossed stems of the bush, they have now pulled back to form a small arch, and in that arch – half in the bush and half out – kneels a young boy of about fourteen or fifteen years old. He’s holding his wand above his head and the light from it makes his hair shine like gold._

_“Are you okay?” he asks again, and Gabrielle can only nod dumbly at him. “Why are you sitting in here crying, then?” His voice is gentle, soothing and Gabrielle feels instantly like this is someone good. Someone she can trust._

_“I want to go to the ball,” she whispers. The boy surveys her dirty face and ripped dress and a small smile tugs at his lips._

_“Did your fairy godmother not turn up, then?”  Gabrielle pauses for a moment, trying to figure out his words, to make sure she has lost nothing in the translation before her face scrunches up in confusion. The boy laughs softly and shakes his head._

_“Never mind. Are you sure you want to sit in there, it can’t be very comfortable?” Gabrielle nods her head and pulls her knees closer into her chest. The boy considers her for a moment and then nods as well. “All right, well, we’ll need to make room for me too, then.” He points his wand at the rose bush above their heads “_ Agito _.”_

_At once, the stems of the bush begin to move, pulling back and up until there is enough room for the boy to move forward and sit cross-legged in front of her. They stare at each other for a moment and Gabrielle is completely flummoxed by this boys actions._

_“What’s your name?” He asks, finally._

_“Gabrielle,” she answers immediately.  A moment passes where the boy watches her expectantly before she follows up with: “What is yours?” The boy beams at her._

_“Seamus. Seamus Finnigan.” Gabrielle is not sure what to do with this information or the ensuing silence. So she is startled when she hears herself saying:_

_“It is a pleasure to meet you, Seamus Finnigan.” Her mother would be proud, but Seamus just laughs lowly and Gabrielle can feel a small smile starting to tug at the corners of her mouth. She realises then that she is no longer crying._

_“You’re Fleur Delacour’s sister, aren’t you.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, more of a statement as he eyes her flaxen hair and blue eyes, but Gabrielle nods anyway. She picks at the ripped sleeve of the dress._

_“This is hers, she will be so angry when she sees what I have done to it.” And a lump is rising in her throat again. She swallows hard and blinks against the tears that are starting to sting the back of her eyes._

_“So why are you wearing it?” Seamus asks simply. Gabrielle shrugs and keeps picking at the dress._

_“Because I wanted to,” she says sullenly. “I wanted to wear a pretty dress and go to a ball and be the most beautiful and dance with handsome boys.” Seamus chuckles quietly and reaches for her hand. His are warm and rough and dry. They make Gabrielle feel calm._

_“Well, I’m sure we can check a few of those off the list,” he says with a charming smile. “You’re wearing a pretty dress.” He plucks at the torn and dirty material of the dress. “You are at a ball.” He gestures grandly around him, to the fairy lights in the bush above them and to the general sound of merriment coming from the Great Hall. “I can promise you that you are, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl here tonight,” he assures her as he reaches over to pull a leaf from her hair and Gabrielle feels her cheeks flush a brilliant pink. “And, while I cannot profess to be handsome, I would be honoured if you would dance with me, Mademoiselle Delacour.”_

_Gabrielle giggles; he completely butchers her name with his accent but she doesn’t care because he has made her smile. He is smiling at her expectantly and she lets loose another giggle which has him_ beaming _at her. “Shall we?” he asks, squeezing her fingers gently and Gabrielle nods shyly._

 _They clumsily crawl out from underneath the rose bush, and Gabrielle emerges to see that Seamus is much shorter than she was expecting. He can’t be more than a head taller than her and she is surprised because he had seemed to take up so much more room inside the bush. She drops her eyes when he turns to face her and she feels her heart drop – the dress is completely ruined and she doesn’t see how she can really be the most beautiful girl at the ball when her dress looks like this. But when she looks back at Seamus it is to see that his robes are equally dirty and she feels a little bit better because Seamus has to be the most handsome boy there tonight –_ he has to be _– and if he is the most handsome in his dirty robes then maybe she can be the most beautiful in her dirty dress?_

_The sound of music coming to them from the Great Hall is muffled by closed doors and windows, but its sound is unmistakable and certainly clear enough to dance to._

_He holds a hand out to her and she smiles shyly as she shuffles forward to take it. She places her hand on his shoulder and then lets out a shriek of laughter when he lifts her up and sets her back down on top of his leather loafers. They’re both smiling widely when they look at each other again._

_And then they dance._

_They dance to three songs: the first one is cheerful and he sweeps them around the garden as best he can with an eight year old girl balancing on his feet. Gabrielle laughs the whole time he’s twirling her around the garden. She is happy and feels wonderful and completely enchanted by Seamus Finnigan by the end of the song and is both excited and delighted when, instead of setting her down, he twirls her and spins her and swings her through another song. And then, finally, a third one._

_She knows when this one ends that she has to go back to carriage – that she’s pushed her luck and the Ball will be ending soon, but she has had a wonderful time wearing a pretty dress to a ball where she was the most beautiful girl who danced with the most handsome boy._

_Seamus walks her back to the carriage – her arm tucked into his - where he sketches a gallant – albeit slightly awkward – bow. He takes her hand in his again and quickly kisses the back of it. “Thank you, Mademoiselle,” he says solemnly and Gabrielle trills a small giggle. “Now I shall be able to go back to my friends and tell them all that I danced with the most beautiful girl at the ball.”_

_Gabrielle’s heart soars, and before she can become too embarrassed to stop herself from moving, she pushes up onto her tip toes and presses a kiss to Seamus’ cheek. “And I shall tell mine that I danced with the most handsome boy. Merci, Seamus.”_

_Seamus smiles and leaves her then, ambling slowly back towards the castle._

_That night, as she crawls into bed - after having thrown her sister’s dress into the fire – Gabrielle promises herself that, one day, she will marry Seamus Finnigan._

**_iii. intoxication._ **

They keep to each other through-out the night. Neither of them knows anyone else on their table, and no one on their table seems to be particularly concerned with talking to them. The amorous couple from earlier in the evening has disappeared and they giggle to each other whilst imagining where they could be.

The food, of course, is inedible, the music is grating, but Seamus keeps the whiskey flowing, and they are almost relieved when the meal comes to an end and they both retreat towards the bar as the tables are cleared to make space for the dance floor. Gabrielle’s body hums excitedly as she looks towards it.

They are sitting on bar stools; her legs are crossed at the knee, caught between his legs and her body is angled towards his, her head tilted inwards – the same way he sits. She knows how this looks – she likes the idea of how this looks and she can’t deny that she’s been flirting with him for a while now. Hours, even. She can’t help herself because this is Seamus. _Her_ Seamus. The one who danced with her when she was eight years old and made her feel beautiful in a dirty dress and bare feet.

But then, he’s been flirting with her too.

She thought she had been imagining it at first – adding meaning where there was none in the friendly touches to her arm or her shoulder – always her bare one - or adding innuendo to smiles which were meant to be kind. But no, they hadn’t stopped at casual. Touches and eyes lingered. Smiles became obviously flirtatious,  and the space between them seemed to diminish quickly. The more she drank, the more Gabrielle found herself responding, found herself hoping.

Seamus Finnigan was _flirting_ with her.

He is playing with a curl of hair that has fallen free of her chignon, his knuckled softly grazing over the skin of her neck and behind her ear and Gabrielle is watching him from beneath hooded eyes.  She wants to say something, or reach out and touch him, too but something stays her, and so she watches the lazy intent of his gaze as it moves over the curl of hair caught in his fingers, down the long line of her neck, across her bared collar bone and shoulder, and down the bare expanse of her arm. His inspection is deliberate and heated and it leaves her skin tingling as though he has touched her instead. Then his eyes are on hers and she feels pinned – frozen. A smile is growing on his lips, it is sly and easy and a little bit wicked. He leans in closer; close enough for his breath to tickle her cheeks and she breathes in the warm, spicy scent of him. He tugs gently at the curl of her hair.

“Dance with me.”

It isn’t a question so Seamus doesn’t wait for an answer. He gets to his feet and tugs her from her seat by the hand. They’re smiling at each other again, and Gabrielle can feel the heat that has been simmering below the surface of her skin all night starting to boil over. But he doesn’t lead her to the dance floor.

Instead, he leads her away, towards the back of the room where a set of French doors guides them out into a romantically lit garden. The warm night air is heady with the heavy scents of Orchids, creeping-jenny and purslane. Combined with the feel of his hand around hers it’s enough to make her feel drunk and her body seems to sag. She follows him around hedgerows and through avenues of trees until they are completely alone. The music is faint here; barely enough to dance by but Gabrielle doesn’t care.

Seamus turns to face her and they are _still_ smiling at each other. Gabrielle is sure that there is something important happening right now, but she’s not sure what. He drops to a crouch in front of her and places her hands on his shoulders. There’s a moment of confused silence and she’s about to ask him what he’s doing when he slides his hand up the back of her calf, lifts her leg and steals her breath. His hand is warm and rough and she’s wavering. Then he uses his other hand to slowly, teasingly pull off her gold stiletto shoe. He looks up at her as he drops it the ground, their eyes meet for a charged moment, and then he moves to the other leg – the other shoe.

Now she is standing barefoot in the damp grass and she curls her toes into it delightedly. She realises then what he is trying to do.

He’s in front of her again and his hands have settled on her waist.

“Let’s see now,” he says quietly, running his eyes down the length of her body. “We have the pretty yellow dress.” He plucks gently at the silk of her gown. “We are at a ball.” There is a moment where the music’s volume increases for two heartbeats before it dims again as someone enters the garden. Or leaves it. “You are, without fail, the most beautiful woman in attendance.” And it’s the way he says it: the most beautiful _woman,_ which sets her trembling. His grip on her tightens. He’s not smiling anymore and the way he’s looking at her makes her want to step closer and run away all at the same time. “And I would, as always, be honoured if you would dance with me, Mademoiselle Delacour. Am I missing anything?”

Gabrielle is breathless and she doesn’t trust her voice but she does her best anyway.

“You forgot my handsome man to dance with,” her voice is shaky – breathless. She tries to make her smile sultry as she reaches up to take hold of his shoulders. “But you appear to have that one under control.”

Seamus raises an eyebrow and smiles sinfully. His fingers curl into the soft curves of her hips as he picks her up and sets her gently down on top of his feet. They’re pressed together; soft curves to hard muscle.

And then they’re dancing.

He guides them – surprisingly graceful – around the garden in a rhythm which is completely out of time with the faint music from the ball room. But they’re too far gone to notice.

Their eyes are locked intensely on each other’s and neither of them is smiling now. Her hands have drifted, no longer gripping his shoulders, but up around his neck and her fingers card gently through the hair there.

The song changes and they don’t, they keep turning in that same, slow rhythm that is theirs alone. They are entranced.

They are moving closer now. His grip tightens as he pulls her in and so does hers. They sigh, soft breathy things, as he leans down to rest his forehead against hers and they’re trading air for a moment; the soft whispers of their breath raising goose bumps on each other’s skin.

She can feel the solid, rapid beat of his heart against her chest and it matches her own. He’s breathing faster now. So is she. They’re closer – she doesn’t know how, but they are and she knows what’s going to happen a second before he moves.

His lips, when they touch hers, are as soft as she had always imagined them. Warm and moist and he tastes deliciously of Whiskey and the chocolate from dessert and like _Seamus_. He kisses her feather-light – _once, twice, three times_ – and then she presses back. He moans quietly and she feels it rumble in his chest. His hands have moved from her hips, round and up to the naked expanse of her back and his touch is like a brand against her skin.

Suddenly, their kiss is harder, desperate and she has her hands buried in his hair, her grip on it probably the wrong side of forceful, but then his own grip on her is bruising – in the most delicious way, as they are pressed up so completely against each other.

He’s the first to pull away but he doesn’t move far and rests his forehead back against hers. Their breathing is laboured and she can feel the blood rushing beneath her skin, the whoosh of it in her ears as she stares up into his flushed face with its swollen lips and hooded eyes.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I set eyes on you tonight,” he says and his voice is rough. Gabrielle shivers. She smiles and leans up to press a soft kiss to his lips, decides that one isn’t enough and goes in for another. She lets her eyes drift shut.

“Do you want to know a secret?” she whispers to him, and she feels him nod. “You know the night you danced with me at the Yule Ball? You ruined me that night – after, there could never have been anyone else but you.”

She tenses for a moment when she realises what she’s just said; when she realises that she’s just admitted to being in love with him for the past fourteen years. But her panic lasts the length of a heartbeat before his lips are back on hers.

This kiss is firm and supple and reverent and she feels herself melt into it – into him. It is shorter than the last one but somehow _more_ and when she opens her eyes to his they are bright and animated.

“I suppose it was always going to end up like this,” he says and he gives her a tender smile. “The princess should always get her prince Charming.”

Gabrielle thrills because – is he saying what she thinks he is?

“And in the morning?” she asks and allows herself a moment of dread in anticipation of the answer.

“In the morning, Prince Charming has to go to work,” he says wryly and the floor feels like it has dropped out from under her for a moment before a smile picks at one corner of his mouth. “But he can also get into L’Ecrivain without a reservation – even on a Friday night.”

Heat rushes through her and she can’t help the smile that blossoms across her face or the flush that sweeps across her chest and up into her cheeks.

“L’Ecrivain?” she raises a brow and the grin he gives her can only be describes as playful. It does very funny things to her stomach. “That’s very – how is it the English call it? High Brow?”

Seamus laughs. “I might know owner – well, I might be _related_ to the owner. But that’s beside the point. Would you like to go?” He places a gentle kiss to the corner of her jaw. “On a date?” he clarifies.

“ _Mais oui_ ,” she says before she leans in to capture his lips again.

 

 

 

 

**_iiii. sublimation_ **

When she wakes in the morning, it takes Gabrielle a moment before her mind can fully catch up to the fluttering pleasure which seems to have taken up residence inside her chest.

 _Seamus_.

She smiles, stretches and then she hears it. _Tap tap tap._ She realises that this is what has woken her up. With her arms still curled around her head from her stretch she looks to her bedroom window. There is an owl.

A beautiful white and amber barn owl is perched on her windowsill, and tied to it’s leg is a letter.

She’s never seen it before.

She is out of bed and across the room quicker than she’s ever moved in her life. The owl hoots in alarm, ruffles it’s feathers and then sticks it’s leg out to her.

It takes her three tries to open the envelope; her hands are shaking that hard. The handwriting is completely foreign to her; blocky and mostly capital letters. She thinks it’s the best thing she’s ever seen.

**_Bonjour Mademoiselle Delacour,_ **

**_I hope you slept well, beautiful. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all morning and I can’t wait for our date tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7:30 sharp. Wear something yellow._ **

**_À bientôt,_ **

**_Seamus_ **

**_P.S Don’t make any plans for the weekend. I have no intentions of releasing you until absolutely necessary._ **

 

He ends the letter with a kiss.


End file.
